


a battle, a war

by nahco3



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 09:53:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18602128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: Russ is the first off the plane. The whole flight, he didn’t sleep, just stalked up and down the darkened aisles like a thwarted predator.





	a battle, a war

**Author's Note:**

> title is from James Baldwin: “Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.”
> 
> standard disclaimer: this fic is just a product of my imagination and in no way real, please don't share this fic with anyone mentioned in it

The plane gets back into Oklahoma City a little after three in the morning. No one says much. There isn’t much to say. In two or three days everyone will head back to clean out their lockers, have their exit interviews, and then the emptiness of summer will begin. 

Russ is the first off the plane. The whole flight, he didn’t sleep, just stalked up and down the darkened aisles like a thwarted predator. In the airport, Paul has to jog to catch up with him. Russ’s headphones are on, his head down; he’s walking fast, away from the team and not looking back. 

Paul calls his name twice, but Russ doesn’t respond. Every part of Paul aches, his quads and his delts and his leaden heart, but he pushes himself through one last burst of speed, to put himself in front of Russ.

“Hey,” he says, hand hovering over Russ’s shoulder, like touching Russ would burn him.

Russ pulls off his headphones and scowls up at Paul. “What?” 

With Russ, there’s no point in prevaricating, couching the blow. Russ is the one who decides if he takes the shot or makes the pass, if he stares you down in furious silence or answers the question, if he lets you in or locks you out. Paul’s never been under the illusion he could change that, change anything, about Russ.

“Come home with me,” he says. 

The flourescent light of the terminal makes the bags under Russ’s eyes stand out, his skin look sickly. He’s lost muscle mass from the start of the season. He tilts his head up to meet Paul’s eyes, his jaw clenched, proud and furious and lost. 

“Fine,” he says, without inflection.

\---

Paul drives them back to his condo. It was an impersonal, brand-new place in a steel and glass building downtown when his agent picked it out for him a little over two years ago. Since then, since he decided to re-sign, it’s changed: his shoes in the front room, pictures on the walls, a blanket his auntie knitted for him thrown over the couch that Russ helped him pick out because the one that came with the place was too short for Paul. He always feels vulnerable having Russ here, more so than being naked in front of him. Which is stupid. Four years and a hundred and thirty seven million dollars should say more about permanence than Paul painting the walls of his place. But it doesn’t feel that way.

Russ sits down and unties his sneakers, lines them up side by side with the laces tucked in. He never kicks them off, ever, even though he could wear a new pair every day if he wanted to. He reaches out a hand and Paul pulls him up and pulls him in, wrapping his arms around Russ, resting his chin against the top of Russ’s head. 

He can feel the moment when Russ collapses inward, the tension in his muscles shifting but not dissipating. It makes Paul’s chest hurt, like someone’s reaching into his rib cage and twisting. 

“Why did you switch on to him at the end?” Russ asks, his voice muffled. Paul can feel Russ’s lips moving through the fabric of his shirt. 

“Dame?” Paul asks. “Do you want to talk about this now?”

“Yes,” Russ says. His hands are clenched into fists in the soft space between their bodies. 

There’s a lot Paul could say. That he’s been switching onto Lillard on defense all series, to give Russ a break. That he’s a stronger defender than Russ is. But Paul is tired and Russ knows those things already. 

“I didn’t want him to hit that three over you,” Paul says, resigned. And sure enough, Russ pushes Paul away so that Paul’s back hits the closed door. He’s standing there, back-lit by the beginnings of dawn. 

“Fuck you,” Russ spits. “What, you didn’t think I could take it?” Paul hates when Russ gets like this, insistent that it has to be him, him alone, carrying everything. 

“I didn’t think you should have to,” Paul says, helplessly. 

Russ turns, vicious, and stalks into the living room. He’s not the kind of person who punches walls but he looks over his shoulder at Paul, angry and confused, confused and angry. 

“Why?” he asks. And Paul has to turn away then, can’t meet Russ’s eyes, because he can’t look at Russ and see the ghost of Durant’s hands on Russ and the cracks Durant left behind. 

“Let’s go to bed,” Paul says, running a hand over his face. He’s exhausted; Russ must be exhausted too. They both need sleep. 

“Why?” Russ asks again, anger bleeding away. When Paul can bare to meet Russ’s eyes, they’re wild with some emotion Paul can’t name, and Paul’s tempted to tell the truth. But he can’t take another brutal loss tonight. 

He shrugs and musters a laugh from somewhere. “Because I love getting my ass kicked.” 

“You’re on the right team then,” Russ says, the closest he’ll ever come to admitting defeat. 

“Come to bed,” Paul says.

\---

When Paul wakes up, the full light of day streaming into his bedroom, Russ is sitting up in bed, reading something on Paul’s iPad.

“Hey,” Paul says, blearily, rolling over to press his face into the junction of Russ’s hip and his thigh. 

“Hey,” Russ says, resting a hand on Paul’s head, continuing to read.

“You’re not reading about last night,” Paul says, eyes half-closed, unwilling to wake the rest of the way up.

There’s a pause. Russ takes his hand off Paul’s head. 

“No,” Russ says, but something about the way he says it sends a shot of adrenaline through Paul, sets his heart pounding, tightens his throat. He pushes himself up, throws an arm over Russ’s shoulder like a boyfriend. 

Russ is reading ESPN and he wasn’t lying: it’s not about them. _Will Kevin Durant Show Up Against the Clippers?_ the headline asks. It’s not that different a feeling from getting a series-ending shot made over his head: the self-protective blankness fading heartbeat by heartbeat, his veins collapsing in on themselves, his heart crushed but somehow still going. 

He takes the iPad out of Russ’s hands, turns the screen off and tosses it to the other corner of the bed. Russ looks up at him; curious. Paul kisses him to keep himself from asking Russ _you still love him don’t you?_

Russ ends up in Paul’s lap, Paul’s hands around his waist. Russ likes the illusion of being taller, seems fascinated that Paul has to tilt his head back to kiss him. Paul is conscious of a growing possessiveness inside him and he has to fight to keep his hands light on Russ. He wants to leave bruises. 

They’re kissing, deep and on the edge of frantic. It’s different. Russ usually doesn’t spend the night, before or after, for one thing. For another, he’s never gripped Paul’s shoulders like this, grinding wordlessly and desperately down against him. 

They can barely untangle to get their shirts off, Russ leaning back in, one hand on Paul’s jaw, tipping his face upwards. Paul bites at Russ’s plush lower lip, bumps their noses together. He’s rubbing the jut of Russ’s hipbone with his thumb, his fingers digging tighter and tighter into the side of Russ’s thigh. Paul’s hard; could come easily from Russ rocking against him. He’s losing the edge of his control, wants to be inside Russ, to take him, to have him, wants every piece of Russ he can grasp. 

Paul slides his hands under Russ’s briefs, grabbing his ass and pulling him closer. He traces a finger, lightly, deliberately down, rubbing against Russ. The barest bit of pressure from the pad of his finger. Russ shudders against him, breaking their kiss to press his forehead against Paul’s.

“Can I?” Paul asks, before pressing kiss to Russ’s neck. Russ throws his head back, rolling his hips, rocking his cock against Paul’s and pressing back into Paul’s hand, once, twice. Paul shuts his eyes, biting down on the soft skin just above Russ’s collar bone, just to keep his control. He didn’t know he could need something like this until Russ and the intensity of it rocks through him, scares him.

“Yeah,” Russ says, but he’s still working himself forwards and back, his breath audible and fast. “God, yeah.” 

It takes them a minute to break apart, before Paul can bear to take his hands off Russ, and even then, Russ leans towards him, chasing him for one more kiss and then another. Paul’s struggling to think, to plan. There are too many things he wants to say and ask and do. He manages to break away from Russ long enough to grab lube and a condom, to skim off his boxers. 

He looks back and Russ is watching him, eyes half-closed, palming himself through his briefs. He’s obviously hard, a wet spot visible. Paul swallows. They’ve never done this before. 

“On my back is good,” Russ says, answering a question Paul couldn’t ask, and then their hands are tangled, both of them trying to get Russ the rest of the way naked, kissing, stupid and clumsy. 

They end up with Paul kneeling between Russ’s spread legs, opening Russ up. Russ grips the headboard with one hand, his other arm thrown over his eyes. His mouth is open, his jaw working soundlessly. His body is easy to read, the way his breathing gets shallower and faster, the way he clenches his fingers, fighting against his own pleasure.

Paul leans and kisses his inner thigh, high up, the soft and secret skin there, and he can feel Russ’s thighs shake, his knees relaxing apart.

“It’s ok,” he says, meaninglessly, a placeholder for something else. “You’re doing so good.”

Russ makes a sound, his first since Paul’s been inside him. Soft, barely anything. Paul works another finger in, gentle. Russ’s grip on the headboard loosens, his arm falling back against the pillows and giving into gravity. Paul kisses him again, the edge of his hip. 

Russ is hard, has been the whole time, leaking at the tip. He’s not covering his eyes anymore and his eyelashes are fluttering, open and then shut again. Paul fucks his fingers deeper into Russ, brings his other hand up to hold Russ’s hips down, takes Russ into his mouth. 

Russ makes another low desperate noise. His hand comes to rest on Paul’s head, not pushing or pulling. Gentle. Paul curves his fingers inside Russ and relaxes his grip on Russ’s hips, lets Russ work his hips up and down. 

He gives in to it. He’s hard against the mattress, his own hips circling back and forth seeking friction, his eyes shut, letting Russ fuck his mouth. Neither of them are going to last if they keep this up, but Paul doesn’t care anymore, doesn’t care about anything except chasing the cut-off gasps Russ makes.

Russ tugs his hair back, sharp, pulling Paul’s head up. Paul follows the pull, letting Russ’s dick slide out of his mouth, moving up over Russ, until they’re kissing, sloppy and wet. 

“Fuck,” Paul says, grinding down against Russ’s thigh. Russ yanks his head back down, continuing the kiss. They’re both panting. 

“Please,” Russ says, pulling back minutely. Paul has to shut his eyes against it. “Please, you.” He takes a gulping breath. “Fuck me.”

Paul’s hands are shaking as he puts the condom on, shaking as he slides into Russ. Maybe they’re both shaking. 

“Russ,” Paul says, clutching at Russ’s shoulders. Russ’s legs are locked around his back, holding him in place. “Russ.” 

Neither of them last long. Paul feels frantic, inside Russ, surrounded by him, lost to anything but the feel of him. He has a hand on Russ’s cock and he’s holding himself up with his other arm, muscles burning. Russ is leaning up, clutching at Paul’s shoulders. His hips stutter, his heart is pounding out of his chest. 

“Russ,” he says again, into the space between them and Russ surges up to kiss him. Paul pushes into him, deep, and feels Russ come in his hand and around him, whatever sound he makes lost into their kiss. He follows helplessly over the edge.

\---

They lie pressed close, Paul half on top of Russ. He can’t bring himself to move, his limbs feeling heavy and light at the same time. He kisses the edge of Russ’s jaw, where his stubble is just coming in, brings his hand up to cup Russ’s cheek.

Russ twists his head away. “You need to wash your hands,” he says, and there’s a laugh in his voice. Paul kisses him, hands safely at his side and the pulls out. Russ winces a little and then sits up, making a face at the mess on his stomach.

“Want a shower?” Paul asks, tossing the condom, smiling at him. He can’t help it. Russ looks cute, forehead all wrinkled up. “Neat freak.”

“Fuck off,” Russ says, but he follows Paul to the bathroom, gets in the shower while Paul washes his hands.

“Satisfied?” Paul asks, stepping under the spray so he can get his hands on Russ. Russ shrugs, but his mouth has an amused tilt to it and he lets Paul run his hands up his sides, coming to rest on his chest. 

“Let me clean you up,” Paul says, after a while, nuzzling the top of Russ’s head. The soap smells fresh and green. He lathers his hands up, runs them over Russ’s abs, down the deep v of his muscles, over his dick. 

Then he looks up. Russ has half-turned his head away, his eyes shut. His jaw is tight even as his hips follow Paul’s touch.

“Russ?” Paul asks, soft.

Russ turns to face him. His gaze his closed-off, locked down. He must see something in Paul’s face, the rest of the question. 

“Been a long time since someone did that for me,” Russ says, voice flat, seeing no reason to blunt the truth. He never does. 

“Oh,” Paul says. 

“I’ll see you at exit interviews.” Russ steps out of the shower, grabbing a towel, not looking back. Paul’s chest feels punched in. He can’t stop looking the muscles of Russ’s back, his thighs, the curve of his ass. The smooth skin he was just touching. 

As the door closes, Paul sinks down, sitting on the cold tile and letting the water beat against him, his body giving out on him.

**Author's Note:**

> for some context:[ here’s Damian Lillard hitting a season-ending buzzer beater over Paul George](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGpfXW-AuFY), and [here’s an article about Paul George staying in Oklahoma for Russ.](https://bleacherreport.com/articles/2788171-paul-george-russell-westbrook-a-big-reason-why-he-stayed-with-thunder)
> 
> thank you to [swingingsportscutebasketball](https://swinginsportscutebasketball.tumblr.com) for noticing that PG switched on Dame for the final shot and giving me the idea for this and to [Emmy](https://veryspecificfantasies.tumblr.com) for her help and encouragement.
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com), screaming about basketball and so much more.


End file.
